


The Thunder Before the Lightning

by Joy_in_the_House



Series: One Foot Wrong, and I'm Going to Fall [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Blood, Fever, Gen, James Wilson Needs a Hug, Spinal Injury, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-31 02:22:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21048179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joy_in_the_House/pseuds/Joy_in_the_House
Summary: Sequel to "It's Only Half Past the Point of Oblivion"Wilson wakes up after the fall, and things look up, if only for a second.





	The Thunder Before the Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> Following the first one.   
This one is largely a filler, but I did draw from the Whumptober alternate prompts, in this case #3 "Fever."

House looked at him, face stony, and Wilson _knew_.

But he said it anyway.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

He was starting to panic, he knew it, he knew his pulse was elevated, everything was just rising, and he didn’t care. He knew it would make it worse but his hand found its way to his leg and he felt frantically around for a moment. His legs were there but he couldn’t feel them.

He sucked in a breath, eyes screwing shut.

“Wilson.”

A broken sob leaked out from his dry, cracked lips.

House watched him for a moment before moving to sit on the bed. He reached forward, grabbing Wilson’s hand and guiding it to House’s chest.

“Wilson, you need to breathe,” he told him urgently. “Breathe with me now.”

Wilson ripped his hand away with a sob, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes to stop the hot tears from falling.

House reached for Wilson’s hand once more, gripping it tightly. As Wilson tried to curl away from him, House’s other hand pulled the younger man into his arms.

Wilson melted into the hug, quiet sobs still jerking his shoulders, and he clung to House as best as he could, as if House was the one thing keeping Wilson from drowning in the ocean of grief that demanded attention.

House’s arm crossed behind Wilson, keeping him upright as his other hand gently caressed the back of Wilson’s head as he cried into House’s shoulder.

House shifted uncomfortably, the emotion and contact more than he was used to, but awkwardly rubbed circles on his friend’s back.

“You’re okay,” he whispered.

As the sobs slowly turned to long shuddering breaths, House gently laid Wilson back on the raised bed.

Wilson stared up at him, his brown eyes watery and red-rimmed.

“How soon will we know?” he asked him quietly, and both men ignored the silent question of _“Until I can walk again?”_

House gripped Wilson’s hand tighter, noticing the other man leaned into the contact desperately.

“Foreman is dealing with the scans right now.” House’s voice was barely audible. “But we won’t know everything until physical therapy.”

Wilson nodded, silent tears still tracking down his face.

“How long was I out?” he whispered, eyes closed.

“Two days. You were kept under so we could get all the tests and the surgery.”

House laid a hand on Wilson’s forehead before switching his hand to his neck.

He cast a glance to the monitor.

“Your fever rose again,” he muttered, and Wilson tried to crane his neck to see the screen. _102,_ it read.

“I’m still in shock,” he cited in a whisper. “There’s swelling. The fever is just the immune system’s response.”

House frowned.

“Looking at you hurts,” he murmured, hand still gripping Wilson’s. “I’ll give you some more pain meds, maybe something for the fever.”

Wilson looked up at him as House gently lowered the head of the bed, eyes feverish.

“Thank you,” he whispered as House switched out the IV.

House smiled softly. He glanced down to see Wilson drifting off to sleep, and he settled back into his chair, content for the moment to keep vigil over his friend.

Foreman came in, stopping at the sight of Wilson asleep, and House hunched over in the chair, a death grip on his friend’s hand.

“House, the scans are back.” He kept his voice low, and House turned towards him.

“Gimme,” he muttered, eyes on the folder. As he drew the proofs from the envelope, he held them up towards the light, eyes scrutinizing everything.

Foreman crouched beside him, pointing out the spinal cord.

“It’s only inflammation. We were worried about the T12 and L1 vertebrae, turns out they’ve been cracked and bruised, but they’ll heal. It’ll take up to a year, but he’ll recover.”

Foreman couldn’t keep the awe from his voice, and House let go of the tension that had been creeping up on him. He turned back to the sleeping man in front of them and finally let himself smile, one brief, fleeting smile.

“I’ll leave these with you,” Foreman said lowly, turning towards the door.

“Foreman,” House spoke up, and the other man turned to him.

“Yeah?”

House motioned towards the stitches that adorned Wilson’s battered face.

“Who did those?” he wondered, not unkindly. “If they heal right, there’ll barely be a scar.”

Foreman smiled briefly.

“Taub did it. He personally scrubbed in and worked his magic.”

House nodded silently, his eyes roving over the monitor.

“His fever broke.”

He glanced down back at the bed, relieved to see Wilson’s chills gone.

Foreman left them alone.

Wilson’s eyes fluttered, and he blinked them open after a moment, sleep still clouding his eyes. He lifted his head, which took a ridiculous amount of energy and considerable pain, looking around.

The lights had been dimmed, and the bedside table was occupied by a glass of water, his reading glasses, and a folder. Wilson blinked at the red pen note that sat atop it.

“CHECK ME OUT,” it read in House’s scrawl.

With a yawn that nearly split his face, Wilson reached for the folder, surprised when several images fell out. He blinked, trying to clear his vision before slipping his glasses on and scrutinizing the images.

His breathing sped up as he continued, finally picking up the scrawled noted once more. He flipped it and began to read the writing on the back.

“T12, L1 cracked & bruised, not broken. Spinal cord not severed. Up to a year, full recovery – House.”

He chuckled softly.

It would be a long road, but he had House by his side.

As if on cue, the man himself limped back into the room, slumping into the chair by Wilson’s side.

Wilson turned to him with a watery, weary half-smile, and House returned the gesture.

They’d be okay.

And if House was faster than Wilson for a while, then so be it.

Wilson pushed himself up in the bed, groaning at the pain up his back before his arms collapsed from under him.

“You’ll get stronger,” House helpfully supplied from beside him.

He turned to give House a mild glare, but the effect was lost as the relief that he would walk again washed over him once more.

He winced.

“Something wrong?” House was watching him.

He shook his head before shifting his body as best as he could.

“I can’t get comfortable,” he muttered.

He shifted again.

House moved forwards, gently sitting him up on pillows, and reached under the sheet to place a pillow under Wilson’s knees.

“Better?”

Wilson nodded, hand rubbing his chest.

“That works.”

He gratefully accepted the fresh cup of ice chips that House handed to him.

The two men sat in comfortable silence for a few moments before a choke broke the silence.

House sat up as Wilson choked on the ice, leaning forwards as he coughed.

“Wilson, hang on,” he told him as he gently pounded on his back.

Wilson reached for House, his hand tangling in his jacket as he kept coughing, and he motioned towards the basin.

House passed it to him, just in time for Wilson to cough up something.

House kept a hand on Wilson’s back, rubbing small circles as Wilson finally raised his head, and House stared in horror at the trickle of blood from his mouth.

Wilson looked up at House in fear before he was choking again, and House pressed the call button. 

“What’s wrong?” Wilson gasped as House sat him up further.

House opened his mouth to respond, and Wilson kept a firm grip on House’s jacket.

“Pulmon….” He gasped out, answering his own question. “Embolism,” he wheezed just before his eyes closed and he slumped against the other man.

“Wilson!”

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's a cliffhanger, but I wanted it to flow into the next with angst, just like the first one flowed into this one.   
Bonus points to you if you know the song I got the title from.  
Nia, I hope you're happy, darlin. I still have at least 3 more to go. Let me know what you think.


End file.
